


I Need (Someone Like You)

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Sex, Pining, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Washington answers Hamilton's threat. (Or, a missing scene to "Meet Me Inside".)





	I Need (Someone Like You)

“Call me son _one more time_ —!”

Hamilton’s sharp tongue cuts through the stifling air of Washington’s tent, then falls into nothingness. Washington is stupefied by the shallow rise and fall of Hamilton’s proud breast, the rosy apples of his cheeks, ink and gunpowder smudged hands clenched at his side…

His _eyes_. Dark. Defiant. Unwavering.

Washington cannot prevent the answering flush of his own skin. The cry of the battlefield surges within him, and he begins to crave the clang of steel on steel. No—more accurately, he craves the control, the certainty of his convictions. In the field, his actions are clear: to defend and protect his men, and the lands and people they serve.

In here, it is not so simple. But Hamilton is a forthright man, and while Washington is not certain about this moment, there are certainties he has discovered in his aide. Unchecked, Hamilton is akin to a flood—ceaseless, uncontrollable. Yet his mind is the whetstone shaped point of a sword. Once earned, his loyalty is twice that of any man. And, despite Washington’s discouragement, Hamilton is desperate to the point of madness.

_I **need** you alive._ The admission, ripped from Washington’s breast in an attempt to make Hamilton _listen_ , echoes now only in his own thoughts. _I trust your command over men. I do not trust it over yourself._

Even as he retires to bed each night, Washington is calculating, always foreseeing the paths his people and Providence are shaping into existence. Innumerable paths include Hamilton gutted by a bayonet, trampled under the feet of a Loyalist’s horse, lifeblood gushing through a bullet wound, holding the firing line against a wave of red coats while his men retreat to safety.

Washington cannot sleep on those nights. He can scarcely breathe.

In the span of his heartbeats, he envisions his arguments to Hamilton, who in truth deserves more than he has been bestowed _. I wish only to protect you, as you will not protect yourself. **I** am not willing for you to die. You should never have been here. My gravest mistake in this campaign was selecting you as my aide._

But Hamilton is beyond words, now. He remembers another rare day in which Hamilton’s famous tongue had stilled: though improper, Hamilton had not objected when Martha gave the feline Alexander his name. He had laughed, teeth flashing in an unreserved smile, implying truth in the oft-whispered tales as he reached to pat the animal’s head. And Washington can only hope in Hamilton’s infamous language of the flesh, because Hamilton _must_ understand.

His body thrums, determination and need driving him. He stalks forward, but Hamilton does not flinch. Before he can convince himself otherwise, he fists his hands in Hamilton’s coat and _pulls_. While Hamilton stumbles forward, Washington lowers his head and covers Hamilton’s lips with his own. They are dry and cracked by chill December winds, faintly tasting of iron. He feels rather than hears his aide’s intake of breath and it is a scant second before Hamilton’s mouth parts slightly—to protest or request more, he knows not. All he knows is that he has unthinkingly kindled a flame nearly beyond his control, his limbs seized with the violent hunger to trap Hamilton’s face between his palms, deepen their contact until Hamilton is forced to find a reason to stay alive, if only by the desire of his commander.

Washington also knows it will be his undoing… for in all the futures laid before him, he never foresaw _himself_ as the cause of Alexander’s demise.

He releases Hamilton as quickly as he seized him, shame mingling with the need still unanswered in his veins. He bows his head and turns away—he refuses to look at Hamilton, at the consequences of the trespass he so unreservedly committed.

“Go home, Alexander.” He forces authority into his voice, as if he has not already abused his trusted position. “That’s an order from your commander.”

He senses the warmth of Hamilton’s hand as it rises to touch and he takes a step farther away, but Hamilton’s soft voice follows. “Sir—”

His throat is tight. Too tight. 

He cannot breathe.

_“Go home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic posted online in over six years. It's good to be back. You can find me on [tumblr](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com/).


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